Monday, December 3, 2007

Puttin' On The Ritz

I am a hermit. But I look like the party planner from Sears compared to my roommate Mike. Mike never likes to leave the house, nor does he like to meet new people. Two weeks ago, when D-A-N tried to engage him in conversation he did his best impression of a cigar store Indian and D-A-N beat it on the lam. I don’t think his boyish charm is used to such a stoic rebuff. So when Mike announced earlier this week that he had been invited to a party, I campaigned like Tracy Flick for him to attend.

Apparently some of the guys from work were having a “So Bad It’s Good” holiday movie party. Being the forceful encourager, I naturally had to attend the party as well, thus guaranteeing Mike would go. Plus, ever since we stopped working together, whenever Mike talks about life at the office, I feel like he is describing a favorite TV show on a channel my cable company doesn’t offer anymore (Seriously FiOS, why no MSNBC????). Unfortunately, median ages dropped like an anvil in a Tex Avery cartoon since I left the company four years ago, and I walked into the youngest group of people I have seen since a high school class toured through SIRIUS last month.

It was a straight party, which was for the best. It is bad enough looking across the room and seeing a cute guy, it’s worse to think he is precisely half your age. At least in a room full of straight people, I could just concentrate on the bad movies at hand and not worry about my libido. We walked in during the finale of Jack Frost, a cheesy horror flick about a serial killer whose DNA accidentally bonds with snow and turns him into a murderous snowman. The effects were about on the level of a third grade play at a very nice public school. Once the film was over, we watched 60 minutes of classic TV show intros as an intermission before the next feature, along with some remodeled intros from a heavenly site called (The Facts of Life is my favorite, followed by Cheers, but honestly they are all pretty terrific).

In many ways, it was like attending a party in the future. The house had computers hooked up to the TVs and everything ran off the Xbox 360. It was Hollywood’s worst nightmare of copyright infringements gone amok, but I have to say, it was all so delightfully easy. The second feature was “Silent Night, Deadly Night” about a sweet boy named Billy who becomes convinced that Santa Claus is a killer doling out death to the naughty. Later, he grows up to be a sexy, troubled teen, who went forced to play Santa in a wildly overstaffed corner toy store, assumes the identity himself and goes on a murderous rampage. Along the way, we learn that no one owns a bra and nuns are pretty useless. Hilarity, as they say, ensues.

The film stars Robert Brian Wilson as the sexy deranged teen, an actor last seen in an episode of Jake and the Fat Man. His shirtless moments refocused my libido away from the sexy teens at the party and his wilderness of a hairy ass in his one complete nude scene reminded us instantly that this was 1984, no matter how futuristic the party was otherwise. The movie wasn’t that bad, although the filmmakers clearly had a massive hard-on for Psycho and borrowed liberally from the plot and shot list. The budget of the movie however was so low that at one point a woman refrains from breaking a storefront window to escape because they clearly couldn’t afford the replacement cost.

After the party, Mike and I left to find Jonathan who had been in Brooklyn but by then was partying it up at The Ritz. I had never heard of the bar, but it has only been open for six months, which is fast for me to discover a hip new place. We walked in to the familiar strains of Salt N Pepa doing “Push It” while an early twenty-something crowd giggled with oldies hits delight. At the bar, a fifty year old balding man in a fuzzy short fur coat and rings on each finger clutched a glass of red wine while ogling the bartender’s exposed torso. “That’s me in five years.” I whispered in Mike’s ear, although his askance glance told me it was closer than I thought. From across the bar, I spotted the back of Jonathan’s head moving toward the upstairs. I pushed through the twinks and made my way up the narrow staircase and greeted him in the calmer oasis of the second floor lounge.

Jonathan had already been drinking all night and his “Frak Me” t-shirt seemed less a come on than a declaration of sheer exhaustion. We chatted once again about all of our favorite shows, which is easy to do since we love all the same shows. In fact, I have yet to find anything that we don’t agree on. He is even excited about my Friday night murder ladies (aka ABC’s Women’s Murder Club). The show has been called Sex and the City in a morgue but it’s more like the episode of the Golden Girls where Dorothy solves the murder mystery, but with expensive shoes and a winter color palette. I implored Jonathan to search YouTube for stray clips of my childhood love “Partners In Crime” and sealed the deal with an anecdote about stars Loni Anderson and Lynda Carter wandering into a San Francisco theater and being mistaken for drag queens. We laughed. We shared a Coke and the belief that Diet Coke makes you fat.

It turns out that Jonathan lives mere steps away from the straight party we had attended earlier in the evening. And even though it was out of the way, since we were parked right outside The Ritz, I assured him it would be no trouble to give him a ride home. It is freezing outside now after all. And the journey back downtown allowed Mike and I to be once again in the vicinity of the Taco Bell on 14th Street. Unlikely earlier in the evening when ye just joked about abandoning hope and all entering here, at 2am we did just that. Along with Battlestar Galactica, Veronica Mars, and Arrested Development, Jonathan also shares our love of the bell and a pair of grilled stuft burritos and a soft taco later, we were back on our way downtown.

Jonathan safely dropped off, and our greasiest cravings sated, Mike and I headed back up into suburbia. Okay, so maybe the party didn’t help either of our social skills. We could have stared at a bad movie just as easily at home and skipped the BBQ chips they served. But we did visit a new gay bar. True, Jonathan is already over it, citing its inconsistent DJing, capped by a 30 minute long version of Gimme More. But we ventured out of our comfort zone and down into the secret world of social people. So that has to count for something. Besides, it was the last night before the snow comes, and there will be time enough for hibernating now that winter is officially here.


Craig said...

Derek, I don't think you realize how hot you are. God I want to worhship you so much (I am not kidding). You had on that ex-Marine today and believe it or not, YOU ARE WAY HOTTER!!!

I would love to be your slave. Your snarky attitude and cuteness factor go off the charts. Please put out more content (video podcast episodes, commentaries, daily routine minutia) for our masturbatorial satisfaction. YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE!!

Anonymous said...

"Gettin' On My Titz..."

John xxx.